


Unwritten

by MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Experiment, Flowers, Games, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Holmescest (implied), Language of Flowers, POV John Watson, Sibling Incest (implied), bluebells, not the rabbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 03:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd/pseuds/MisplacedLonelyHeartsAd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are just passing the time. It may or may not be a game.<br/>*****<br/>“I mean, it’s not like Mycroft sends you flowers.”</p>
<p>Sherlock snorts. “If he did, I guarantee that they would be fraught with meaning.”</p>
<p>“What, in the ‘language of flowers’ like a Victorian suitor?” John laughs at the absurdity of the idea. “Okay, so what flower represents ‘I worry about you constantly’?”<br/>“ ‘Eat more green vegetables.’ ” They start snickering.<br/>“ ‘I’ve been monitoring you by CCTV.’ ”<br/>“ ‘Give me back my purloined ID cards.’ ” At this point they succumb to a hearty fit of giggling.</p>
<p>When Mycroft brings flowers the next morning, it is no exaggeration to say that they are both rendered speechless.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwritten

**Author's Note:**

> The Holmescest in this one is only implied, and may, in fact, be a figment of John's imagination.

* * *

 John is not going to write up this incident for the blog.

It begins innocently enough, possibly with a discussion on ways to kill people. It’s one of Sherlock’s standard conversation openers when he’s bored. It may have had something to do with poisoning by lipstick. John is a little fuzzy on the details. He can't remember how, exactly, they come to the topic of “how to tell if a person is a good kisser,” because the subsequent dialogue obliterated everything that came before.

“You shouldn’t write off people based solely on external signs,” says John. “What if they’re nervous, or shy? A person could be a great kisser even though you wouldn’t think it to look at them.”

“Mm,” murmurs Sherlock in vague assent. He is peering irritably into his microscope and sounds distracted, his interest in the topic clearly flagging. “Like Mycroft.”

John freezes. He can’t have heard right. “Did you just say—Mycroft?”

“Mm. Problem?”

“Problem?” John gasps incredulously. “Wait—no. You don’t mean that you and your _brother_ …”

Sherlock raises his head with exaggerated slowness. He blinks twice, then frowns. “Oh. Is _that_ …what you think?” he asks. His frown transforms into a smirk that may be covering a laugh. “Oh, John.”

John takes a moment to think, replaying the exchange in his head, and realization washes over him. “Oh. Of course you didn’t mean that you had—er, first-hand experience…” He reddens. “Um, sorry. I’m sorry; forget I said anything.” He is now scarlet with embarrassment, and Sherlock looks highly amused. “I don’t know why I would assume you meant—”

“No, now this is interesting,” interrupts Sherlock. “Why _would_ you assume that?”

“It was stupid,” John admits.

Sherlock fixes him with a serious, wide-eyed look. “I haven’t contradicted your assumption.”

John falls for it, just for a moment, before his common sense kicks in. “Now you’re just having me on. Very funny.”

“No, no, not funny,” says Sherlock eagerly. “This is _fun_. Better than this—” indicating the microscope and mess on the kitchen table with a deprecating wave of his hand. “Now. Ask yourself, why?”

John sighs. “Sherlock, I don’t want to play this game.”

Sherlock ignores him and continues, “There must be a reason that you would think that I have personal experience of my brother’s kissing prowess.”

“But I _don’t_ think that, Sherlock—”

“Don’t you?” asks Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

John grimaces, cursing inwardly. “Look, Sherlock, it was just a weird moment of stupidity. There’s no reason behind it. My brain doesn’t work like yours.”

“Obviously not, but you are more perceptive than the average clot,” says Sherlock.

“Oh, thanks for that,” John mutters.

“So think. What was it, in my behavior, or Mycroft’s, or both of ours, that would give you such an idea?”

“ _Nothing_ , Sherlock,” John exclaims, exasperated. “I have no data, as you would say.” And with that, he flees under the pretense of doing laundry.

***

Over the next couple of days, ignoring John’s discomfiture, Sherlock returns to the topic repeatedly. He has dismissed all his potential clients’ cases as beneath his notice (“Not even a three, John!”), and John wishes desperately for Lestrade to call with a nice locked-room murder or even just a missing heiress.

John is trying to make toast amidst the detritus of one of Sherlock’s latest experiments when Sherlock begins anew.

“But you do concede that it’s possible,” says Sherlock.

“ ‘Concede’?” John exclaims. “Are we having some sort of debate that I don’t know about? Knowing you, that you’ve been conducting in your head all this time? Concede what?”

“Concede that it is possible that I am, or have been, in a sexual relationship with my brother,” says Sherlock, looking absolutely imperturbable.

John sighs. “Of course it’s _possible_.”

“How probable, would you say?” Sherlock leans forward, looking predatory. John falters. It’s a mistake.

“Hm. Interesting.”

“No, no, no! Sherlock, I told you I’m not playing this game,” John says. “If there’s something you want to tell me, why don’t you just say it?”

Sherlock pouts a little. “That wouldn’t be any fun. I like watching you figure things out.”

“Oh, great,” snaps John. “You know, Sherlock, that I won’t be able to figure anything out, because you wouldn’t let me.”

Sherlock seems genuinely puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asks.

John stares at him. “Come to think of it, I suppose you really don’t give a toss about social taboos, not even the big ones.” He pauses. “Uh, you _do_ know that there is a rather stringent taboo against—”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, John, I do.”

“But if it was something you wanted, you wouldn’t care,” John reasons. “On the other hand, there’s Mycroft. He’d care.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” Sherlock says. John catches a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“That’s not fair, Sherlock,” John complains. “Look, you have to see that this is hopeless. I can’t deduce anything and I’m not going to try. The game’s over.”

“Oh, all _right_ ,” huffs Sherlock. “But just tell me this: what can you deduce—in general—about my brother and me, from your observations of us?”

“You really want to know?” asks John.

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock responds. “Obviously I can’t be objective, so your view is the only reliable one I’m likely to hear.”

John ponders every meeting between Sherlock and his brother that he has witnessed—a fair number since his first encounter with the enigmatic Mycroft in that dark warehouse. They are mostly short, mostly in 221B, and nearly always antagonistic on one side or the other, if not both.

“Well,” John begins, “I’d say you find each other mutually annoying.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“And yet—” John continues, watching Sherlock closely, “for two people who supposedly hate each other, you’re in constant contact.”

One of Sherlock’s eyebrow arches up. “Constant?”

“Well, he calls you a lot. And you text him a lot,” explains John.

“You’ve noticed that? How can you tell?”

John smirks a little. “I can tell when you’re texting Mycroft by the way you hold your phone—closer to you and at a slightly different angle than usual—and the way you sort of frown and bite your lip at the same time.”

John feels a bit triumphant to see Sherlock look surprised. “Well, you _are_ perceptive, John,” he says.

“So,” John says, “I do think you’re fonder of Mycroft than you let on.”

Sherlock harrumphs but doesn’t deny it. “And?”

“That’s it,” John says. “I mean, it’s not like Mycroft sends you flowers.”

Sherlock snorts. “If he did, I guarantee that they would be fraught with meaning.”

“What, in the ‘language of flowers’ like a Victorian suitor?” John laughs at the absurdity of the idea. “Okay, so what flower represents ‘I worry about you constantly’?”

“ ‘Eat more green vegetables.’ ” They start snickering.

“ ‘I’ve been monitoring you by CCTV.’ ”

“ ‘Give me back my purloined ID cards.’ ” At this point they succumb to a hearty fit of giggling.

When Mycroft brings flowers the next morning, it is no exaggeration to say that they are both rendered speechless.

***

The scent of the flowers, sweet and heavy, precedes Mycroft’s appearance in the doorway of the flat. John, seated at the sitting room desk with his laptop and a cup of tea, is the first to see him there, looking the same as always, umbrella and all, with the addition of a small bunch of blue-violet flowers held upright in one hand.

Sherlock rises from his chair in the kitchen with an expression on his face that John has never seen him wear. It’s a mixture of surprise, hope, and apprehension, and it’s gone in a flash. The next moment his chin is tilted up and his mouth pressed into a defiant pout—his usual Mycroft-battling expression—and he enters the sitting room to glare at his brother.

Mycroft gives John the briefest of salutational nods before fixing his eyes upon his brother. John expects him to offer a cutting comment on Sherlock’s dressing gown, but he says nothing. He lifts the flowers slightly in Sherlock’s direction, but his brother does not react, not even to give his customary fraternal greeting of “What are you doing here?”

Mycroft crosses the room, and John can now see that the flowers are common English bluebells, a simple, artless bouquet sitting in a plain glass vase. Mycroft sets the vase in the center of the mantelpiece. The blossoms, pendant on gracefully drooping stems, shiver momentarily before stilling.

As though drawn by a string, Sherlock makes his way to the mantel and studies the flowers minutely before looking over at his brother.

Mycroft smiles sardonically. “No, I haven’t been wandering in the woods picking flowers, brother mine,” he says, and John is astonished to see Sherlock wince.

_Okay_ , John thinks in bewilderment, _I have no idea what this is about, but that looks like one point to Mycroft._

Sherlock quickly regains his composure and his glare. “No, you wouldn’t, of course,” he says. “These are toxic,” he continues, with a jerk of his head towards the bouquet.

Mycroft’s eyelid twitches. _One all_ , thinks John. “Yes, and don’t I know it,” Mycroft replies. “Enjoy them while you can. They don’t last long.”

“ ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ ” Sherlock returns in his most bitingly ironic tone.

The two of them, standing at opposite ends of the mantelpiece, look as though they are on a stage set for John’s personal benefit. Or so he may have thought if he were not convinced that at this point, they have forgotten his presence entirely. A disconcerting silence grows until John is just at the point of clearing his throat.

Then Mycroft sighs and pulls one of the stalks of blue blossoms from the vase. He holds it lightly between index finger and thumb and presents it to his brother at arm’s length. Sherlock looks at the floor.

“Indulge me,” Mycroft says quietly. “Please.” Sherlock stares back at him, eyes narrowed, biting his lip. His brother returns the stare, poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. John watches their silent and almost imperceptible battle until Mycroft presses his lips together into a thin angry line and lets the stem drop.

Sherlock, in one swift motion, catches it without taking his eyes from his brother’s face. The expression that forms on it, John decides, can only be described as relief.

“Do you like them?” Mycroft asks his brother.

Sherlock ignores the question. “Why?” he demands, indicating the flowers with a brusque gesture.

“I thought,” says Mycroft slowly, “they might bring back memories.” He looks down and begins to lightly tap the tip of his umbrella against the floor. “As they do for me.”

“Pleasant memories, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks nonchalantly.

Mycroft stops tapping. “Yes. Very.”

Sherlock sniffs and idly brushes the curve of the flower stalk against his bottom lip. “I like them,” he says curtly. Mycroft smirks down at his umbrella.

John has been watching this exhange as though it were a play, and when the brothers turn toward him, he flinches in surprise.

“Bluebells, John,” says Mycroft, returning to his customary brisk manner.

“ _Hyacinthoides non-scripta_ ,” Sherlock adds promptly, twirling the stalk of little bells.

“A classic British woodland flower,” says Mycroft. He glances over at the stalk in his brother’s hand. “ ‘Constancy,’ ” he adds. “According to the Victorian language of flowers.”

John’s mouth falls open. Sherlock laughs outright, and Mycroft clears his throat and looks slightly embarrassed. John tries not to think of Mycroft poring over a catalogue of flowers and composing cryptic messages through floral arrangements.

“Why ‘constancy,’ though, if they don’t last long?” John asks neither one of them in particular.

Mycroft replies in his driest tone, “I believe that they were chosen for that attribute not for their longevity but rather for the persistence of their return, year after year. They are—” and he is looking at his brother now, “—steadfast.”

Sherlock’s smile—brief, hesitant, and sweet—astounds John. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Sherlock smile at his brother, he realizes, and never before has he seen him smile like _that_.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, apparently sincere.

“My pleasure,” replies Mycroft, and John is sure they’ve forgotten about him again, for Mycroft heads for the door without another word, and Sherlock stands staring at the space his brother had occupied, expressionless, holding the flowers against his lips.

John gets up and goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on. “Tea?” he asks. He isn’t surprised to receive no response. He feels oddly rattled, though he can’t pinpoint why. Several times he attempts to form the question: _what was that all about?_ but the words don’t make it past his lips. He makes his tea and is turning to return to the sitting room when Sherlock begins to speak without looking at him.

“Have you ever seen a bluebell wood, John? There’s a little spot deep in the woods near our house where these grow. In the spring—now, in fact—they completely cover the ground.” He closes his eyes, and the ghost of a smile graces his face. “Mycroft and I found it, a long time ago. I was twenty. We hadn’t seen each other then for over two years.”

His words begin to tumble out with increasing rapidity as he continues, eyes still shut. “We were just walking together, and talking—not like now, you know; we don’t really talk anymore—and we came upon this place, just a little spot, but covered, just covered, in trembling blue flowers—it was absurd, really, how perfect it was, like a dream, like everything I had ever wished for—” The rush of words ends abruptly with a sharp intake of air as he opens his eyes.

John is dimly aware that the mug in his hand is tilting at a dangerous angle as he holds his breath. Sherlock’s eyes, alight with a dare, lock onto John’s rapt gaze. “It was beautiful.”

The mug falls from John’s hand. “Shit,” he gasps as some of the scalding liquid lands on his foot. He stumbles backward and vainly puts his hand out for a steadying surface. _What—what the hell did he just tell me?_

He looks up warily. Sherlock is now regarding him with a calm stare. “It’s interesting,” Sherlock says in a cool, clinical tone, “how suggestible people are. Put an idea into their heads, let it take hold, and it colors everything they hear afterwards.”

John thinks rapidly. _Bluff? Double bluff? At this point I can’t tell, and I doubt I ever will._ “Sherlock,” he says slowly, “I thought the game was over.”

“It was more of an experiment,” Sherlock replies. He lays the stalk of bluebells across the top of the skull on the mantelpiece. The blossoms droop, the furled tips of their petals echoing Sherlock’s own curls. He walks to the entrance of the kitchen and surveys the mess on the floor.

“We’ve been playing this game too long,” he says.

John picks up his mug—chipped but still usable—and throws a towel on the puddle of tea. “It’s worse than Cluedo,” he says wryly, and Sherlock laughs.

Half an hour later, while Sherlock is rambling on about plant-derived alkaloids, it suddenly occurs to John that he isn’t entirely certain who Sherlock meant by “we.”

He doesn’t dare ask.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Apologies for the American orthography and any errors. Feedback is much appreciated!
> 
> You can find me at: [amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com](http://amisplacedlonelyheartsad.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you google "bluebell woods" you'll find many lovely pictures of bluebells. They are a protected species in the UK.
> 
> And here’s the sequel, from Mycroft’s point of view: ["Written."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1448764) It’s just a little bit of fluff.


End file.
